


in a moment of rare grace

by thebladeitself



Series: mutual benefit [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Gratuitous Overuse of Italics, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, they're a bit pathetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebladeitself/pseuds/thebladeitself
Summary: "It's only amid the dying sounds of the city and the darkening of the sky does he allow himself these moments of pure self-pity. In the light of the day it's far too shameful, but in the embrace of the early hours he can transform himself into this little wretched creature."
Relationships: Eridan Ampora/Sollux Captor
Series: mutual benefit [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790353
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	in a moment of rare grace

**Author's Note:**

> if you know me irl and you see this,,, just pretend you do not see it

It's only amid the dying sounds of the city and the darkening of the sky does he allow himself these moments of pure self-pity. In the light of the day it's far too shameful, but in the embrace of the early hours he can transform himself into this little wretched creature.

The burn of a cigarette dying against his fingertips shocks him to the present. He snubs the now burnt-away paper against the cement ledge below his legs, setting the crumpled filter next to its wrung out peers, already becoming soggy from the light rain. His eyes pass over the rows of chimneys framing the night sky. Below them: rungs of slatted windows, some illuminated by the hall lights while others are shrouded by curtains closed by long-asleep residents. Sometimes he will pick a window, one that has a small flicker of fluorescence behind a plaid curtain, or a plant shaking its leafy tendril out of a cracked sliver of window. Then, he watches. He lights up another cigarette as he observes the window, waiting to hear the click of the fridge door: a hint of life. The barely-there contact of another human, a life-line running, running, running towards his own before—for a moment—becoming tangent to his own and extinguishing like the crackling flame between his fingers. On the rare occasion a resident _does_ make their presence known, he thinks about it for the rest of the night, watching the window until he feels the brush of morning against his eyelids, before returning to the safety behind his own window.

Tonight, there's a light on. A bright blue beacon in the quasi-Monet of smudged yellow and brick red. If he listens closely enough he can hear the click-clack of computer keys filtering out past the drawn curtains. To him, it's music. He draws his hand back in surprise, cradling it against his chest as his skin tastes the lick of smoke and fire, before dropping the burnt out filter. When he looks back up, he finds the window gone, and in its place the blank shadow of a little life. It's only when he glances up, eyes seeking to catch the gaze of the moon once more before returning home, does he see a spark of red, cradled between two hands. And then, that spark briefly igniting a profile before being drawn in by a pair of orange-tinged lips and floating up into a cloud of smoke. The figure turns towards him, pausing before giving a brief wave. He slides down from his perch and into the gentle linens of his bed.

He doesn't return to the roof for three days. He feels guilty, like mommy found him stashing sweets in his bottom drawer. But he was getting desperate. He needed a smoke and he needed the windows and the chimneys and he needed to fucking cut and burn and bruise but maybe the shame of crawling back to his little hideout would be punishment enough for him.

He reaches out to push open the roof entrance. Perhaps the figure wouldn’t be there. Or perhaps he would talk to him, or perhaps the stranger might just open his eyes and bright blue light would pour out and blind him. He was fine with watching people’s windows, only being granted the briefest signs of life. But for one of the people behind those windows to come out, to make first contact--it would be too much.

Unfortunately or fortunately or some eldritch amalgamation of the two, the stranger is there, just like three nights prior. He must have watched Eridan come out, because he waves, nonchalant, absolutely nothing behind the gesture. Eridan almost appreciates its performative nature. Maybe he didn’t really want people to see him. Maybe he only wanted to be looked at on his own terms. Maybe the root of all his problems was the mortifying fear of being looked at, known, and deemed to be not much of a sight after all. 

They share their sleeplessness, every night for two weeks. Eridan wonders if the man ever closes his eyes and what does he do for a job that keeps him up at odd hours? Or, he thinks, could he be like Eridan? Could he be all alone behind his window? 

Probably not; there's no one in the world quite as pathetic as that is there? 

Sometimes he finds himself thinking about those cherry-lit lips and slender fingers and what they would feel like against the bridge of his nose and against his crepe-paper eyelids, lit up with cornflower veins, too thin. He wants to carve these feelings into his skin and god does he try but a wound against the pale skin of his thigh could never compare to how he imagines the brush of Carmex and smoke against his jaw must feel. He stops when he feels his belly tighten because even he isn't that detestable. 

It stretches on, this little dance they do around each other, mirror cherries and mirror lips, before the stranger greets him in his spot. He says something but Eridan can’t focus because _oh god someone was seeing him and he didn’t know how to be looked at and god he fucking burned to have someone’s eyes on him but not like this_. 

So he leaves. He turns on his heel and crawls back to the safety of his window, tail between his legs with eyes and wrists burning. If he hurts himself that night, who can blame him? Desperate to be seen but not looked at but also just a little bit please, _please_ just look at me but not too close or you’ll see that there’s nothing to see at all.

That night he thinks of the man's two-toned eyes looking right into his, no flinch, no fear. If he wasn't such a pathetic mess he could have said something in return; a simple "hey" like a normal person would say if they weren’t desperately touch-starved and cut off from humanity. But that wouldn't be very on-brand for him. Instead he lays in bed, squirming and mewling as the waistband of his pants digs a pink indent into his wrist. What a perfect blueprint, he thinks as he crouches against his shower floor, deepening the fading indent with a razor.

It takes another week for him to work up the courage to go back up. But now he’s not looking at the windows. and he’s not going to his spot. Now he’s walking up the metal slats of stairs towards the stranger where he now returned to his original spot. Could it be he feels the same shame as Eridan? Maybe his heart beats against a twin set of ribs.

“I—“ Eridan stops, unable to bring himself to say anything more. the conversation feels too fucking raw and he’s only said one word but suddenly his throat is closing and the backs of his eyes burn. he gapes like a fish out of water before the man saves him. Because that is exactly it, he saves him.

“I'm sorry for scaring you before, man. I know you probably weren’t expecting it, I promise I'm not like, a creep. I just, y'know, thought you...”

The man trails off, shrugging through an awkward jerk. Maybe he wanted the contact as much as Eridan, maybe he was just less of a worthless coward.

“I, uh, I’m Sollux um. we’re probably neighbors I just wanted to like. actually greet you because that’s supposed to be polite 'cause we’re neighbors and shit so, yeah.”

He has a lisp and he can't even say his own name right and it's equal parts pathetic and endearing. The thought that he might think of Eridan in that way makes him want to burst with joy. Eridan want to cry and scream and run in circles shouting _I've been waiting for you I’ve been waiting for your eyes and your sight thank you thank you please keep looking at me!_ But instead he says:

“Fucking eloquent.” 

Because he's an asshole.

“About as eloquent as scurrying off like a roach in the light the minute someone starts talking to you?”

And oh fuck he's ruined it again and it isn’t even an _it_ yet. 

But then the other man quirks his lips up in a cocksure grin and Eridan can’t help but stare at those sharp incisors that he's so used to seeing sinking into a Rizla as he flicks at his lighter. Eridan looks up into two toned eyes and he's seeing for what feels like the first time. And he can’t help but smile because he's looking at something—someone—and they're looking right back.

He realises that he hasn't introduced himself or even said anything for what feels like hours and he feels like he needs to open himself up and pull out his guts and say _hey this is gonna be hard because I don’t know how to not squirm under your gemini gaze but please just keep looking and I’ll try and make myself into something you want to look at_. Instead, Eridan fishes around in his pocket and retrieves a cigarette, holding it out to Sollux. An olive branch, a “sorry for running off and being fucking speechless apparently” and “sorry for who i am because you’re gonna find out eventually I can feel it.”

Their fingertips brush as Sollux takes the cigarette, and it feels like more of a thrill than a family trip to the beach and the cafeteria having strawberry milk and dunking his head below the surface of a pool all at once. And when they share the fire of the lighter, noses bumping and smoke mingling together it feels like being seen.


End file.
